


Balancing Acts

by ScarlettsLetters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angel Wings, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bottom Dean, Bottom Dean Winchester, Boys Kissing, Collars, Come Swallowing, Demon Sex, Destiel - Freeform, Double Penetration, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Lactation Kink, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Prostate Massage, Reluctant Castiel (Supernatural), Strap-Ons, Threesome - F/M/M, Top Castiel, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Wet & Messy, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 08:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14351460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: Every century, Heaven and Hell convene a grand conclave in a randomly selected location. They discuss affairs on neutral ground, drink, socialize, and tilt the universal balance in their favour by tempting a mortal. Dean and Sam Winchester chase the legend of an unquiet ghost, and run straight into trouble. There's no way out of this except for Dean to choose between a demon and an angel... And just his luck it won't be easy as answering a question. He'll be choosing with his body.





	Balancing Acts

**Author's Note:**

> Soundtrack: [Walkin' After Midnight (Wildfire Remix)](https://open.spotify.com/track/7gR3sZ9nkeYSIdTcZCsV76) by Ki:Theory
> 
> Sam and Dean come a mountainous Washington town hunting ghosts. They soon find themselves in a cosmic balancing act. Dean falls afoul of celestial rules he didn't even know about.

“Why are you staring at me? You know I hate it when you stare.” Dean hip checked the Impala door shut. Not a slam, he would never threaten to warp the frame by using his full strength. Warm metal ran under his hand, smooth as the skin of any woman. In some ways, better.

Sam swung his leather coat over his shoulder. “Nothing.”

“Sure, sunshine, nothing. Do I need to wipe that smug look off your face?”

“Since when do you hum to the radio?” 

Dean's brows lowered over his flinty hazel eyes. They took on that greenish cast always signalling trouble. “I ain't a hummer.”

“Sure sounded like Clearwater Creedence Revival to me.”

“Wasn't humming CCR.”

“Whatever you say, Dean.”

Sam turned away to cross the parking lot. His brother cut in closer, glaring at him.

“It was  _ Joplin _ , and I wasn't humming no Janis.” 

“Fine.”

The standoff on the sidewalk barely impeded traffic. Not much traffic to speak of in the podunk village of Skykomish, snug up against the wooded Cascades. Mountain peaks soared into a stony grey sky, clouds choking out any view of the fabled view. Dean craned his neck back, trying to loosen up the crick.

A shabby set of white clapboard buildings occupied the flat strip between raging whitewater and sloped sides, a space half a mile wide at best. The highway threaded alongside a string of tourist shops and he scowled at the  _ Whistling Post Saloon _ .

“Too cutesy for my liking. You sure this place is any good?”

Sam palmed his smartphone into the back pocket of his worn Levis. “Yelp gives it a four and a half star rating.”

“Yeah, well, Yelp also gave a cockroach infested Burger King four stars.”  

“That was an accident.” Sam bit the inner corner of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

“I heard that, princess.”

The air hung heavy and misty around the pine forests. Dean scoured his face with his hand, and looked back at the white clapboard building. Sagging balconies faced the river, propped up by mossy beams anchored at angles to the building's exterior.

“There's our target. The Skykomish Hotel.” Sam closed the distance, peering up at the vacant windows. Sashes pulled down gave the building a peculiarly empty, false quality. “Looks like something straight out of an Old West show.”

“Ain't no set for  _ Westworld _ , that's for sure,” Dean said.

One lonely station wagon hugged the curb in front of the building next to scraggly grass struggling to survive amongst the puddles and dirt backyard. “The restoration work isn't set to begin for another month.”

Dean knelt next to tire treads partly filled by brackish water. He poked his finger in and watched the ripples spread. “That said, plenty of construction trucks parking in the back lot. They've torn the property up good.”

“Crew to gut the place?” Sam asked.

“Maybe.” Dean stood, wiping his hand off on his thigh. “Whatever else, they aren't much worried about the ghost of Laney Jessop.”

“Will when they start getting guests.”

“C'mon. Jessop ain't going anywhere and I don't like exorcism on an empty stomach.”

Sam trailed after him, lengthening his stride to catch up as Dean forged a path ahead. A few red, white, and blue banners hung from the total of six lamps decorating the only street through town. A few hanging baskets added spots of colour in the misty gloom.

He shot a look back at the layer-cake white hotel. The covered balconies in the front looked straight out of an Arizona ghost town. Peeling bone white balustrades staggered crooked around the building, further lending an antiquity to the shabby place. A banner drooped in the corner, and he paused to flick the weathered yellow vinyl up.

“Huh.”

He traced the loops of the company logo obscured by the sign. A six hung within a yellow circle.  _ Do6  _ stamped on the sign matched name of the company restoring the building, according to the research he spent the previous week performing into the so-called haunted hotel of Skykomish.

Dean halted up ahead, holding open the door to the  _ Whistling Post _ . 

“You coming?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam snapped a photograph of the logo, the first time he saw anything of the sort. Two weedy lots separated the restaurant from the hotel. The elevated wood facade reared up in a rectangle, the planks laid out in a path vibrating under his boots. He winced a little at the thunderous cacophony and how the boards bent under his weight.

A shiver rolled over his skin. The wet air of the Pacific Northwest remained constant, but the interior of the saloon offered a definite sense of warmth.

Dean eased into the place like a local. Brass-chased lamps made the wooden floors glow. He arrowed for a wooden table close to a red-felted pool table in the back, performing a balancing act of squeezing past a healthy number of diners bellied up to the deep walnut bar or sharing tables.

“My kinda place. Maybe it oughta be on the Dean's List.”

Sam groaned behind him. His reflection ghosted over the aged glass decorating a 19th century wooden bar case mounted on the wall. Bottles of every description stacked up three deep against the deep shelves. An old miner’s lantern hung from a hook, and the golden eagle statue glared at him in passing.

“Yeah, it would be.”

The clientele checked the brothers out as much as they assessed their surroundings. Dean propped his foot up underneath the table after sitting, not even bothering to eye the menu. Seated with greater care, Sam put his back to the wall, gaining a clear look over the central dining room.

Soon enough, a pretty young woman in jeans bustled up. Wickedly sharp chopsticks speared the bright gold hair pulled into two buns. “Can I get something started for you?”

Sam offered an easy grin. “Coke?”

“Lager,” Dean said simultaneously.

She looked between them, and her smile turned up, the smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose arcing in time. “Coke and the lager on tap?”

“You. I like you.” Dean clicked his tongue. “You keep that up and you're getting a good tip.”

“I am to please,” their waitress chimed in, raising her shoulder in a small shrug. Turning on her heel, she bounced off to the bar with an efficiency known to service staff everywhere.

Dean's eyes trailed after her briefly. His brother gave a bemused snort and unlocked his phone, sliding it over the table where it went ignored for several minutes.

“Earth to Dean-o. You gonna drool after her all week?”

“What's your problem? I'm enjoying the local sites.”

“Didn't figure Cascade villages were your type.”

“Plenty you don't know about me. I'm a deep man.”

“Aren't you.” Sam pointed at the tabletop, notably his Galaxy sitting between the cheap paper placemats. “Have you ever seen that before?”

Dean squinted at him, and then folded himself up to look over the phone. Their waitress balanced a tray on her fingers, sweeping past a pair of heavy-set bikers and another thin men in neat matching skinny jeans and hipster sweaters over collared shirts.

“Here you go.” She put down the foaming lager on a beer mat in front of Dean, and neatly turned to deliver the pop to Sam. “Are you ready to order?”   


“Well, what do you recommend?” Dean paused. “Miss…”  


“Jo,” she said.

“Miss Jo.” He gave a bigger smiler. “What should I be eating?”

Jo's profile swiveled away from Sam, and she licked her pink mouth unconsciously. Teeth sinking into her lower lip, she said, “Lots here is good, but if you're asking for the best… You can't go wrong with the Holy Strike burger.”

“Sold.”

Dean lost focus on Sam asking about healthy additions to his meal, raising his foaming glass to his lips. The dark amber liquid sloshed against the side, and he breathed in the heady, hoppy scent that proved as fulfilling as the leather of an old coat.

Small portraits in sepia tone hung on the walls. A long painting at the back reflected the saloon like a mirror, right down to the eagle poised on the bar and folks seated on stools and tables.

The place buzzed. He figured half the tables belonged to escapees from Seattle trying to get fresh air, and then rest probably locals. Tribes kept totally to themselves, clustered around the tables and even those on barstools sat apart from one another.

The nutty flavour of the lager lingered on his mouth as he put the glass down.

Sam shoved the phone at him. “So, that shape. You know it?”

Dean gave a passing look over the photograph of the yellow symbol. “Where'd you see that?”

“On a sign hung on the hotel.”

He shook his head.

“Too bad. You think Jo might know?”

“Sam, she's an amazing looking girl, but I don't think ‘identify logos’ falls under her skill set.”

“Never know.” Sam turned in his chair and waited for the blonde waitress to notice him. She turned practically the moment he set eyes on her back. Uncanny. 

Jo slipped up to the table, bringing two sets of cutlery wrapped in actual white linen napkins. “Anything you need? The kitchen might be taking a bit longer than usual.”

“This a big crowd for around here?” asked Dean.

“Oh yeah.” Her eyes glowed a warm chocolate brown, crinkled at the corners. “Special event. You didn't know?”

Sam's eyebrows lifted and his head followed, that easy as honey grin back in place. “Just our luck to pull in and get the last seat in the house.”

“Didn't expect that October would be party time around here,” Dean said.

“Just remember to be good. The house management doesn't put up with fights and rough housing today.”

Jo grinned, hand resting on her hip. Her band t-shirt pulled tight over her lush chest and she winked at Dean.

“We'll be on our best behaviour.”

“What's the special occasion?” Sam added.

She smothered a bit of a grin. “Oh, hundredth anniversary, you know.”

“Here? Wow, that's something.” Dean shoved the phone back at Sam. “I thought the building was pretty old.”

“Yeah, we get everyone coming in to celebrate and shoot the breeze. Otherwise they'd never mix.” Jo nudged a golden bun in the direction of the other diners.

While Dean puzzled over the statement, his brother held up the phone to the waitress.

“I've got a question, Jo. Have you ever seen this shape before?”

“Oh yeah. They're a big property management company.” She nodded, checking at the bar. The bartender, a man with jet black hair, cut high and tight, managed the drink requests. He nodded to her.    


“Never heard of ‘em.”

“Do6 is pretty cool. They always tip well and mind their manners when lots of big names like that don't.” Jo shrugged.

“They're behind fixing up the hotel, right?”

“You really must be new. They're sponsoring the party. Good folks. So your tab is covered, but not tips.”

The waitress transferred her tray to her other hand.

Sam went on to ask a few more questions, and she screwed her lips up in thought. His phone chimed that soft ringtone -- all ridiculous shimmering harp notes -- indicating a very particular call, but he let the call go to voicemail.

Dean considered kicking him under the table for interrupting him instead of playing decent wingman.

He went back to drinking his beer and checking out the saloon, and the painting again on the back wall. Getting up to stare at it might be rude. The canvas was faithful to the rest of the room, right down to the little framed portraits in brown smudges and the oblong rug under a rocking chair by the window.

“What kinda place has a rocking chair?”

Sam cleared his throat. “Sorry, he's got no internal monologue to speak of.”

“Screw you too, Sam,” he muttered and tipped back the pint glass until a mouthful of lager took the pain away. At least for a little.

The phone rang again. Jo drew away.

A figure in the painting went bottoms up too. He squinted and pushed back the chair, putting the empty glass down.

Jo jumped. “Oh! Right, let me get you another.”

“That's service,” Sam said to a vacant seat. He palmed his phone and swiveled around. Dean approached the painting, passing several of the groups in hushed discussion. A few ate fries chased in ketchup, while the hipsters all seemed to prefer salad.

He stopped in front of the painting and read the small brass plaque on the bottom of the carved frame. Gothic writing struck the title in worn letters:  _ Conclave. 1897. _

“Heh. Fancy.”

Humming to himself, Dean reached out to touch the gilt scrollwork, looking up to catch the brushstrokes under the faintly crackly finish of the oil painting. The fine detail glowed despite the aged patina. Diners shoes bore tiny laces. Thin trousers showed a smudge of dirt. The fellow by the door even had a tear in his beige trenchcoat. Hell, looked halfway like Cas wandered onto scene of the Wild West bar.

He hadn't noticed anyone in a trench before. Scratching the back of his head, he tried to remember whether trenchcoats were even a thing in the nineteenth century or something from the trenches of World War I. Sam would know.

A buzz niggled the back of his thoughts.

Slowly he became aware of the odd silence. The conversation ceased to buzz behind him.  

He turned, his hand sliding to the gun hidden under his jacket. The holster held a reassuring weight. Dozens of eyes turned on him. Before he finished drawing, he saw his brother pinned to the bar by the little blonde with her hair in buns and the tender snarling at her, showing pointed, sharp teeth.

“Yeah, loading up on fresh ammo outside Seattle was a smart idea,” he announced to no one in particular. “Might wanna do something about that, Wings.”

A hipster with folded silver-tipped gaped at him, mouth a vacant black hole. Dean hated angels about as much as anything, and he resented not bringing a good dagger along.  

“Dean,” a voice cut through the suffocating atmosphere. The sort of familiar voice that sometimes took the place of his conscience, assuming that track for the deadened silence in the back of his head most days.

“Shoulda known you'd be here.”

“Put the gun down, Dean.”

He glanced to Cas. The gun almost fell from the hunter's hand.

Cas stood on the threshold of the front door, black suit and his typical trenchcoat hanging open off the strong line of his shoulders. Red Converse shoes stuck out as strange.

Red shoes. Dean swiveled and stared back at the painting. Right there, the newcomer had the same posture, hands open at his side, and red kicks, bright as blood.

“No, no way in hell.” He gripped the stock and fell into a firing stance. Castiel lifted his hands in surrender.

At the bar, Sam squirmed a little, unable to break the blonde waitress hold. He breathed out a hissing noise in distress. The snub barrel of the pistol pointed straight at Jo's perky chest.

“You don't know what you're doing here,” Castiel said. He approached very slowly and the assorted tables were frozen in various stages. Some of the burlier men rose. The hipsters joined for each.

“Maybe you wanna get explaining in short words?  _ After _ they release Sam?”

The angel sliced a direct path down the middle of the dining room.

“Dean, they won't let Sam go until you put the gun down.”

“Fat chance, feathers.”

“Unless you feel like starting a war to end all wars, please put the gun down.”

Something in Castiel's face, rather than his tone, tripped a wire. He wasn't messing around. That quirky line between his brows formed. Cas never got the damn wrinkled look unless he was confused, perturbed or lamentably distracted by turn signals again.

“Get talking.”

“You're at the centennial conclave.”

“Short words,” Dean snapped.

“Every hundred years, angels and demons meet on neutral ground. No weapons.”

“So?”

“You're on neutral ground pointing a weapon.”

“And this makes it my problem how?” Dean kept his back to the unnerving painting, glaring at the hipsters -- angels, he figured -- and ruffians -- probably demons. Though nowadays, he could never be sure. The infernal and celestial upheaval had a depressing tendency to unleash unfortunate style change.

“You shoot and Heaven and Hell go to war on Earth,” Castiel replied, mild as ever. His pointy eyebrowed mask of consternation wasn't going anywhere, though.

Dean swore under his breath. Sam ceased to struggle, though his fists remained clenched and back tight. Explained how 110 pounds soaking wet could manhandle him like a keg. “Don't you people have rules and laws against that sort of crap?”

“Rules you're flagrantly violating.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. A mortal causing bloodshed triggers the violation of the Conclave, and allows for war. It's a bad rule but a rule nonetheless.”

Chalk up swearing louder and longer, a full two minutes before he halted. The saloon echoed with his displeasure, and more of the patrons showed their solid black sclera as he went on. Scenting blood came naturally.

“So who the hell lets a human walk in to this fancy fandango?”

Cas shrugged. “Humans can't see us during conclave.”

“So why can Sammy and I?” 

“Your stellar sense of humour,” Jo hissed from the bar.

“Oh shut your hole, you're not helping. Bloodshed doesn't mean I can't banish you.”

“Actually,” another patron in a crisp grey suit said, “you cannot.”

Things went from bad to worse in the space of a freight train smashing off a bridge. Dean dearly wanted to scruff Sam and make a strategic run for the Impala. Maybe kick Cas into the river while he was at it, his fault or not.

“The Conclave suspends banishment and violence on neutral ground, as long as it runs. Once every hundred years, we have deliberations and discussions. Intended as a peace measure,” Cas tried to explain himself.

“Not helping!”

“Maybe he can help…” A demon ceased purring when Castiel turned those implacable, magnetic eyes on him.

Sam kicked his heel against the bar to get Dean's attention and really, the hunter wanted none of it.

“So I put my gun down, eat my hamburger and walk out with Sammy, and no one cares. Right?”

Castiel shook his head. “Not really that simple.”

“Work with me, people! We sit in the corner at the little kid's table?”

“Actually,” the bartender spoke up. His voice poured over the room in a commanding, haunting chord that failed to really match up with his reformed Goth look. More like a priest than a frontman for a cheap college band, Dean figured.

“Actually  _ what? _ ”

“Dean, no…” Cas trailed off.

“You might avert trouble by settling a wager.”

“No.” At least twenty voices went up together. Dean's hackles rose as he pointed the gun again, sweeping a broad arc in front of him.

“War's sounding a helluva lot better if you ask me, but none of you are askin’. Let Sam go. We leave. You have your shitty angel meeting.”

“It doesn't work that way. The Conclave,” Cas waved his hand, “traditionally settles a deal with a mortal. The first to enter.”

“You said it was invisible,”

“Well, it is until the meeting is settled and we need one,” Jo added.

Dean couldn't follow. “This is all fucking Greek. Get to the point, or you're going through the door in a ball of fire and we'll see about BSing me.”

Castiel cut in, “We seek a mortal to determine the divine balance at the end of the conclave. Think of it as a wager.”

“A wager.” That he could try to get behind.

“Yes, a wager. Each side has a representative who offer the mortal something. The mortal chooses. That side gains a favour.”

“Balance being what, demons crawling everywhere or angels burning us for our improprieties?”

One of the angels coughed on his milkshake. “Didn't even know he could say a big word like that.”

“Stuff it, Zophiel,” Cas added. For that alone, Dean decided not to pull the trigger. He so badly wanted to. He really should. Sam was shaking, sick with anxiety or fear.

“Yeah, well, I choose neither. Good?”   
  
“Doesn't work that way,” the black-haired bartender murmured. “Regrettably, it's one side or the other.”

“Fine, let Sammy pick.”

“Your brother is a compromised choice. Besides, you entered first.”

“Suck a dick.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “Being the oldest blows. Fine. Ask your damn question and let's get this over with. What do we do?”

The demons took all of two seconds to push forward the perky blonde waitress. Jo kissed Sam on the brow and hopped off the bar, sauntering towards him. She swiveled his chair around and plopped herself down.

Cas pointed to the gun. “If you'll give that to--”

“You represent Heaven,” said twenty voices in unison, perfect song vibrating through the air. He shot them all a dirty look.

“I do not.”

“Our will manifests. Castiel carries the favour of St. Gabriel.” They universally sat down, faces bemused to irritated.

Castiel withdrew his hand. The weapon hung heavy and accusing in Dean's palm.

He pointed at Sam. “Fine, you let  _ him  _ go and hold this. I answer your stupid question and you go home in peace. We get away, no scratches.”

“Except the ones you acquire on your own,” Jo added.

“No, because you'll animate barbed wire or some shit,” Dean spat back at her.

“He is a Winchester, Jophiel. You should know better. This is hardly fair.” Cas shook his head, as though admonishing a child.

“The Conclave isn't about fairness. It's about winning.” Jo tugged her shirt flat, revealing the outlines of her pink nipples through material Dean swore hadn't been stark translucent before. Castiel blushed furiously.

Sam shook off the demonic hands holding him and gasped for breath. Leaping to the floor, he stumbled forward to claim the gun as Castiel seated himself stiffly in Sam's chair.

Dean crossed his arms. “Get this over with.”

“Dean, we gotta…”

“Nuh-uh, no telling secrets. I know you were on the phone with Castiel,” Jo wagged her finger. 

The younger Winchester slouched back, his expression wrought with worry and pain. Emotions that cut straight to the heart of Dean's being.

“Look, I got this. Sammy, sit your butt down and make sure no funny business. We'll be out of here in a sec, and I ain't paying for the drinks.”

Sam tried and failed at a smile. “They were on the house.”

“Then fine, we're paying for the damn house so we don't end up falling into faerie or some shit. Ask your question.”

“It's actually an  _ offer _ ,” Jo stressed the word. She placed her hands on the table, and hoisted herself up, leaning in heavily. “The eternal question.”

“Speak it plain, lady.”

“Rules say I don't have to.” She bent forward, revealing the deep plunge of her cleavage that, truly demonic, somehow remained heavy, full, and perky. He stared at the softness filling out her cotton shirt, the hard peaks of her nipples standing out.

“Do we have to this kind of display in front of everyone?” Castiel stared hard at the tabletop.

“We can have a little privacy, sure. Not you, of course.”

In a wave of her small hand, dark smoke erupted into a wall around them. Dean squinted at the folding screens painted in Japanese style with tigers and cranes in a natural landscape of pine trees. Not what he expected.

The next moment, she dragged her nail down his shirt to the button of his jeans, almost tentative. She hesitated at the waistband and flicked one of the belt loops, tugging him forward even with that small effort.

Slowly she corroded his sensibility and brought painfully to the fore he hadn't gotten laid in six weeks.

“You're a succubus,” he breathed out through his tight throat.

“They're given bad names. I'm not that simple.”

“Sucking my soul ain't simple, honey.” He pushed her away.

Pushed her right in her pillowy breast, and she cried out when the fullness compressed under his palm. Her nipple rubbed against his fingers. He snatched his arm back, staring at her.

A slight damp patch bloomed on her shirt. He stared at Castiel for an explanation, but the angel continued to atomically deconstruct his shoelaces.

“Oh.”

“I'm the unspoken wish, the need whispered in the dark. Not something to fear, unless you fear yourself. Your needs.”

Dean barely looked away from her, half expecting her to clock him with a cactus. Maybe a prehensile tail or chopstick in her hair.

“Fix your shirt.”

“You squeezed my breasts. What did you think would happen?”

She fucking  _ lactated?  _ He sniffed his hand. Sure enough it smelled faintly creamy and that explained those big tits. Almost without thinking, he brought his hand to his mouth. He licked the taste of her off his fingers.

“Oh Dean, no…” moaned Castiel.

“Hush. You'll get your turn. If he wants you.”

Dean stared at his hand.  _ Fuck. _

“What did she do?“

Cas bit his lip and shook his head. He stared at his feet, flaming red as his shoes.

It took him seconds to close on her, to close his hand around her shoulder and another going to her neck. “What. Did. You. Do?”

Every word accompanied a shake. Her big tits wobbled in her shirt. The wet fabric stretched and pulled in a way it certainly hadn't before. Her hand slipped into her jeans and he just about dropped her.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He was breathing deep and fast, trying to control the bubble of anger.

“Oh damn.” Such a modest profanity for a demon, really. “You're good. Cas, you never told me…” 

“Shut up, Jophiel. You aren't helping.”

Livid red prints stood out on her pale neck. He hadn't used enough force to bruise her that way, but the blushing collar suited her alarmingly well. Dean rarely got a chance to find a girl who swung his way of kink, and a freckled blonde sure as hell fit the bill.

Hell. Demon. He bared his teeth and sat in the chair Jo vacated. “You gonna try anything, Cas?”

“It's her turn.”    
  
Jophiel leaned in behind Dean, her chest pressed hard to the curve of his back. She looped an arm around his neck and he knocked her away.    
  
“Tell you what. I'll give you one shot to get him before me. You win, you take the Conclave.”

“You can't,” Castiel whispered.

“Coda four. Yes, I may choose to allow interference twice.” Jo drew a circle on the table as she leaned past Dean, and it was all he could do not to shove her into Castiel's lap.

A circle, and within it, a six. “In Lucifer's name, I so swear to abide by Castiel of Heaven's attempt this moment to claim Dean's favour at the Conclave.”

Dean scowled.

“What's that? Sammy showed me a picture.”   

“The symbol of Dis,” Castiel said.  


“Dis. The city in the  _ Inferno _ .”

“I do love a man who reads.” Jo rubbed her warm hands over his chest and he shuddered when her palm traced over his nipple. She started to pluck the nub once for good measure, stopped by Castiel's stare.

“The very same,” Castiel murmured, and laid his palm flat. He poured a few drops of pop from Sam's glass in a triangle. “I acknowledge this.”

“So she's a fallen…”

Jo beamed even brighter.

“Angel.”

Dean finished his sentence and dropped back into the chair, right as Jo flounced to the side. His head still knocked into her chest and brushed against the underside, and she cried out.

“Is that it? She fail?”

“No.” Castiel sounded plenty haggard. “You initiated, not her.”

“So let's get this over with.” Dean clapped his hands. “Offer me something good.”

The angel knelt to face him, arms crossed over his thighs, expression clouded by something Dean couldn't even name.  “It doesn't work that way.”

“Why not?”

“You have to  _ want _ what I offer.”  


“So? You know me well enough…”

“To know her advantage.” Castiel's eyes lowered, lids brushing his cheek. Ridiculously thick, dark lashes touched his skin in the light.

Jo remained oddly silent. Maybe the laws really did prevent her interference.

Dean stole one of the abandoned fries and chewed on it, watching the dark-haired angel thoughtfully. “You think so? C'mon. This ain't hard.”

“Yes, it is, Dean.”

“Why?”    
  
The direct question struck the angel and Castiel sighed, long and low and oddly melancholic. “Because.” He wrung his hands. “You have to want  _ me. _ ”

“To win? Sure.”

“No,” he said. “She chose the means. If you'd … The gun…” Castiel helplessly trailed off. Jo smirked behind the human.

Dominoes fell and Dean, not always the fastest thinker, was no dummy. He slammed his open palm on the table so hard the crockery and glasses shook. “She came onto me. That means _ you _ have to come onto me and I have to like you better?”

“And culminate it,” Jo murmured.

“Aw  _ shit _ .” Dean put his head in his hands.

 

Castiel wouldn't meet his eyes.   

**Author's Note:**

> So the wager of Heaven and Hell over Dean Winchester begins. A fallen angel up against Castiel, yum. Have any suggestions for the hand that Castiel or Jophiel might bring to bear? Let me know in the comments. I'd love suggestions!


End file.
